


the cabin at skaneateles lake

by bstarship



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Gen, I promise, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is a Mess, Sick Peter Parker, Tony Stark Can't Cook, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Is Not Helping, and gets away with it, bc he's peter :), peter sasses authority figures for 4k words, this hardly makes sense but it's a lot of fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship
Summary: Peter and Tony spend a weekend at the Finger Lakes and nothing could possibly go wrong.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 100





	the cabin at skaneateles lake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blondsak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondsak/gifts).



> posting this a little early bc i'm too excited to wait but !
> 
> happy birthday blondsak!!!!! ur writing is so inspirational and has lifted my mood on such dark days. thank u for being so lovely and for writing the most wonderful content! 
> 
> here is a little fluff for u ! i wanted to make it angsty but then this fluff ball came out instead lol
> 
> i hope u have a wonderful day friend <3

“Did you pack everything?”

“Yes, May.”

“Socks? Shoes? Mini deodorant?”

“ _Yes_ , May.”

“Good, we don’t want a repeat of the last time you went up to the lakes,” she said, ruffling his hair as she wore a tight plastered smile. She handed Peter a blueberry muffin that she had picked up at a Food Bazaar earlier in the afternoon. 

This had been the last thing she expected—Tony Stark inviting her nephew on a weekend business retreat, yet all it ended up turning into was a few days at a lakeside cabin upstate. She held her skepticisms about the billionaire loud and proud, and she had every right to. He had his fair share of shady moments. But if Peter trusted Tony, then she trusted him too. And, of course, now that her nephew was Queens’ own web-slinging vigilante, it was hard not to trust that Peter could look after himself. 

“Oh, and don’t forget—” May held Peter by the shoulders and stared at him with a determined expression. “If he tries to get you to drink _any_ kind of alcohol—”

“He won’t, May, c’mon,” Peter groaned out, smiling slightly as he tugged on the straps of his backpack. He was eager to start the weekend, and what he needed more than anything was a day away from sweaty spandex and slamming into brick walls because his web shooter was broken. “I told you, he’s responsible. Sometimes.”

May pulled him into a hug. “I know, I know,” she said with a sigh. “It’s in my job description to worry. You legally have to let me.”

“I don’t remember signing any contract,” Peter said. 

She let go, rolling her eyes before shoving a plastic bag at his chest. “Here. I got you a sandwich from Delmar’s while you were at school because I’m such a good aunt. I figured he’d wanna take you to some fancy place with scotch eggs and caviar for dinner, so I wanted to get you a backup. And if you get a little snacky after that, I tossed in some pistachios. Hopefully Tony is allergic.” 

“I don’t think he is,” Peter replied, checking the contents of the bag. The brief scent of pickles made his stomach growl. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

May twisted her lips. “Darn. I’ll get him next time.”

Peter’s phone buzzed before the menacingly plotful conversation could continue. All the text read was _I’m here Buccaneer._ He adjusted the straps of his backpack once again, placed his blueberry muffin in the bag with his sandwich, and grabbed the duffle he had stored at his feet. 

“That’s Tony,” Peter said, smiling through the sudden nerves that overcame him. He had spent plenty of time with Tony in the past, sure, but not more than a couple of hours followed by a movie until one of them fell asleep. A whole weekend at a million-dollar cabin in the Finger Lakes intimidated him. “I guess I’ll see you Sunday night.”

May hugged him once again. “Love you,” she said. “And stay safe. Oh, did you pack your suit?”

Peter had already started toward the door once she asked the question. “It’s just one night, May. Plus, it’s Tony. _Iron Man_. One, he won’t even let me out of his sight. Two, he’s got me covered. We’ll be fine. If anything, I’ll be the responsible one. Actually, don’t take my word for it.”

She nodded in agreement and laughed. “Yeah. You’re right. Okay, have fun. If you end up getting a tattoo somehow, just make sure it’s tasteful.”

“Ha-ha. Love you too.”

* * *

The night before the trip, Peter had been unable to sleep a wink. He was in the suit until the chaffing became unbearable and the craving for Funyuns randomly snuck up on him. Truth be told, Peter had never had Funyuns before and for all the right reasons. The excitement for the weekend kept his energy up at school earlier in the day. But now, as he sat in the passenger seat of a car that was four times his net worth, his exhaustion hit him like an oncoming train. 

Tony kept the radio low, classic rock trickling through the speakers as he hummed along. They shared meaningless conversation and a few inside jokes here and there, but once things went quiet, then the head on Peter’s shoulders transformed into a bowling bowl. 

“Whoa there, sport,” Tony said, lightly patting Peter’s cheek so he would stay awake. “You can’t nap now. It’s only seven and we’ve got another hour to go.”

Peter groaned and shoved Tony’s hand away. “S’not my fault,” he mumbled.

“Okay, it’s not your fault,” Tony repeated. “Let me guess—you were just so darn excited to spend the whole weekend with me that you couldn’t sleep last night. That’s so sweet of you.”

“Definitely not.” Peter tucked his hand under his chin as he stared out the window. The sun was setting to the left, an array of oranges and purples filling the sky. Meanwhile, he counted every deer they passed along the highway and waved at each one. “There was a really big drug bust in Jackson Heights that I just had to be there for, Mister Stark. You’d understand if you had been there.” 

“ _I’d understand if I had been there_ ,” Tony said, humming. “Not sure that makes sense, but I’ll take your word for it. And what did I say about staying in the suit all night? You have to sleep, Pete. Take it from me, of all people.” 

Peter spotted a herd of four deer. That brought the total number of deer seen up to twenty. It was a new record for him. 

“I’d take it from you if you actually took your own advice,” Peter retorted under his breath. 

Tony’s head snapped in his direction. “Did you just talk back to me?” 

“It’s up for interpretation.”

“Because of that, you’re hereby required to sleep in the haunted loft from here on out,” he said. “No ifs, ands, or buts. Don’t worry about it though, Martha is a good roommate.”

“Martha?”

“The ghost that haunts the cabin.”

Peter raised a brow, chuckling nervously at his mentor’s serious tone. “Did you kill someone, Mister Stark? Does that mean I’m next? Is this weekend just a secret ploy to murder me?” 

Tony laughed and turned up the volume of the radio. “That, Mister Parker, is up for interpretation.”

* * *

Peter had the best sleep of his life that night. It took an hour or so to adjust to the eerie silence—he was used to car horns and shouting from his upstairs neighbors until sunrise, and the minute he shut his eyes to nothing but white noise, Peter became restless. His exhaustion took over soon enough, and he slept all night long without stirring awake once to pee. 

The first thing to greet him that Saturday morning was the scent of eggs and burnt toast. His stomach turned at the rich smell, smokey and charred as it crawled into his lungs before he could tear off the bed comforter. He rubbed at his eyes, stretched for a moment, and then slumped down the steps to the kitchen where Tony was placing four black bricks of toast onto a plate. 

Peter’s nose scrunched up at the sight. Through a yawn, he said, “how the hell do you burn toast?” 

Tony hadn’t seen Peter until that very second. He blinked away the startlement and then began to scrape the burnt crust off of the bread. “Well, Pete, it’s quite simple actually,” he said. “All you have to do is not check the settings on the toaster before using it. Then, voilà! You get your own homemade hockey pucks. How fun?” 

Peter, in his sleepy stupor, huffed out a weak laugh and took a seat at the kitchen counter. The room around him was wall-to-wall wood with a great stone fireplace nestled beside the kitchen. The place was smaller than he expected, yet he imagined the cost still had numbers on May’s monthly rent. The spiral staircase that led to the loft was his favorite feature of the cabin.

“Super fun,” Peter muttered. 

“You’re under my roof this weekend, Pete,” Tony said. “Everything will be fun.”

“Now I’m nervous.”

From the stove, Tony lifted a pan of scrambled eggs—luckily cooked to perfection—and divided them between two plates. There was a bowl of orange slices in front of Peter to make up for the less-than-satisfactory toast fiasco. 

“When did you have time to get groceries?” Peter asked through a mouthful of orange. He winced at the tartness. 

Tony pointed to the clock on the stovetop. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. “When you were getting your thirteen-hour-long beauty sleep,” he answered. “There was a lovely little market ten minutes up the road. Sorry you missed it. I know how much you love grocery shopping.” 

“Oh yeah,” Peter said sarcastically. “It’s my favorite pastime.” 

Tony placed the plate of eggs directly in front of Peter. “Eat up. We can’t have you with an empty stomach when we gut fish later.”

“W-we’re gutting fish?”

“Uh—yep.” Tony nodded as he took a sip of his coffee. “That’s what I said, innit?” 

Peter blanched slightly, and his appetite for scrambled eggs faded. “I-I—yeah, I just—I didn’t realize that we were—that we were gonna fish. I’ve never been fishing before.”

Tony seemed shocked at the statement, eyes widening while his brows raised. “Didn’t your dad ever—hm. Okay. Well, I was joking about gutting the fish, by the way. We’re just gonna toss ‘em back if that makes you feel any better. After we’re done, you can pretend to drown me in the lake so we’ll be even. And then we can make a fire.”

“Did you get any marshmallows?”

“I’m not evil, Pete,” Tony said, “of course I got marshmallows. _Did you get any marshmallows?_ Jesus. Who do you think I am?”

“Someone who didn’t have any marshmallows when you made me hot chocolate.” 

“That was one time.”

* * *

As it turned out, Tony didn’t know a single thing about fishing. Despite owning a boat and a house on a lake, he had only been fishing once in his life—that was with his father when he was thirteen years old. In the three hours they spent in the middle of the lake, Peter ended up catching a trout, or at least what he thought was a trout. Tony caught a hairbrush. 

_“I honestly think it takes more skill to catch an inanimate object.”_

_“You’re just trying to make yourself feel better for not catching a fish.”_

_“Yeah, well, fishing is overrated anyway.”_

_“You’re overrated.”_

_“Please take that back. I cannot stress it enough how much that hurt my feelings.”_

_“I’m sorry, Mister Stark. You’re not overrated. If anything, you’re unrated.”_

_“That’s more like it.”_

That afternoon, after Tony decided that it was time to sell the boat he hardly ever used, they spent a few hours at the beach beside the dock. It was enough for Peter to momentarily forget about school and Spider-Man. Meanwhile, Tony seemed anxious at the thought of not working. Some kid crashed a drone in a nearby tree, and the man climbed all the way up to the top so he could fix it in three minutes. 

Peter swam on his back for a while, face up toward the sky as birds flew by overhead. He focused on the sights and sounds, from planes soaring above to leaves rustling in the wind. Not a single worry crossed his mind for the first time in years. He hadn’t gone a single day without his senses going awry because of some hint of danger, and now he felt completely at ease. Peter could breathe in _actual_ fresh air for once. 

Tony, on the other hand, was fighting off bugs left and right. He bought out the nearest market’s supply of citronella candles to keep the mosquitos away once the sun went down. On the other hand, the older man found comfort in an Adirondack on the dock with a drink in hand. His resistance to jumping into the water was misunderstood by Peter—something about the filthy layer of algae at the bottom that Peter believed to be harmless. 

“Parker, if you splash me, I’m selling you off to Nick Fury,” Tony said from his reclined position on the dock. He had sunglasses perched high on his nose, gaze locked on the sky as he spoke to Peter who was busy pruning in the lake. 

“Legally you can’t do that,” Peter said in the midst of treading water. “You don’t actually own me. Besides, you’d never do that to me. You care about me too much.”

“Bold assumption.”

“What if he comes looking for me one day?” Peter asked. “Would you tell him where to find me?”

Tony lowered his sunglasses so that Peter could see the whites of his eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Absolutely not. I care about you too much.” 

The hours continued to pass, afternoon becoming evening in the blink of an eye. After a rousing game of ping-pong in the basement (Peter won best two-out-of-three), Tony made the daring decision to make dinner for the two of them. To Peter’s surprise, the chicken only ended up minorly charred. 

They were in the middle of carrying logs of wood to the fire pit when a dizzy spell washed over Peter for a moment. He cleared his throat free of an itch and carried on down the yard to the edge of the lake. 

“Just you wait ‘til I get this thing started, Mister Parker,” Tony said, lowering the logs into the center of the pit. 

Peter furrowed his eyebrows as he handed his logs to Tony. His head spun again, yet this time, he almost swore he was going to pass out. For a few seconds, he wondered if Tony had poisoned him, and he wondered if it was intentional or not. 

“What’s happening when you get the fire started?” Peter asked, scratching at his skin. He had only been outside for a matter of a minute—he couldn’t have possibly gotten bit by a bug yet. 

Tony smirked while he laid a few twigs and fire starter sticks within the logs. “The scariest ghost story of your life. Duh. You think I didn’t come prepared?”

“I didn’t know we had to come prepared.”

“Makin’ your old man do all the hard work then, huh?” Tony asked, pulling a matchbox out from his back pocket. He lit a match in one swift movement before letting it catch on a fire starter. After lighting a few more matches, the fire gained a hint of life, and Tony stood with creaking knees. “Take a seat, Pete. _Ha_. Well, that was just an adorable rhyme, wasn’t it? Anyway—sticks to your left. Marshmallows to your right. Choose your sword wisely.” 

Peter couldn’t shake the odd feeling running through him even as he sat down around the fire. The lightheadedness now refused to leave, and the heat from the growing fire hard started to bother him. Additionally, his skin itched like crazy. 

As Tony began his grand novel ghost story—one Peter had heard a thousand times—another feeling crawled up on him as his marshmallow burned to a crisp in the fire. He couldn’t stomach the idea of food anymore. His head spun as nausea left him searching for stability. It wasn’t something Peter had experienced since before the spider bite over a year ago. Maybe Tony _had_ poisoned him. 

The muscle aches were quick to accompany him, and Peter felt as though the small fire had burned right through his skin. He couldn’t hear a word Tony said. 

Peter bounced his knees, desperate to ward off nausea as he blew on his smoking marshmallow. Once he took a bite, he instantly regretted doing so.

“And then,” Tony said, smiling from ear to ear, “the man untied the ribbon from her neck, and _bang!_ Her head fell right to the floor. Just like that. I mean, it’s not the most terrifying story in the world, but it’s the only one I could memorize before you—”

Peter leaned over the side of his chair, coughing out the remnants of his day’s meals into the grass. The acid stung at his throat, and tears welled in his eyes. He could feel the nausea slowly fade each time his stomach lurched. The sensation cleared seconds later, nothing but the taste of sour bile left on his tongue as he sat back against his chair with a soft thud. While his stomach felt better, his head screamed out in pain. 

Tony stared at him with wide, deer-like eyes. His marshmallow melted right off his stick and into the fire. “Jesus Christ, Pete,” he said. “My story wasn’t _that_ scary.”

Peter’s bottom lip trembled. “It—it’s not that,” he mumbled, shaking his head.

“You sick?”

He shrugged. Speaking took more energy out of him than he realized. “No, no,” he said. “Can’t get sick. It’s not—I haven’t gotten sick since—” 

Peter’s stomach lurched once again, but all he could do was dry heave. There was nothing left for him to throw up. He sniffed as a few tears slipped down his cheeks. Meanwhile, Tony sat stunned across the fire, fear and confusion loud in his expression. 

“Okay, all right, uh—” Tony stood, immediately fetching an empty bucket they had brought down with them. “Stay put. No more puking, ‘kay? Cos’ one—gross. Two, yeah. Gross.”

Peter did as he was told. As for puking, there wasn’t much else he could do. His head ached worse than anything, and it seemed as though a million ant-men—like the tiny guy on Captain America’s side in Germany—had burrowed underneath his skin. That was the fever talking. 

Meanwhile, the fire sizzled to a dull glow as Tony dumped bucket after bucket of lake water onto it. His actions were frantic, eyebrows knitting together while he stole an occasional glance at Peter who was in an upright fetal position. 

“Whatever,” Tony muttered and allowed the bucket to clatter to the ground. “It’s fine. Can you stand up?” 

Peter nodded slowly, yet for the first time in years, it felt like his strength was failing him. He wasn’t convinced that Tony had poisoned him anymore, but he did think his muscles were now degenerating at a rapid pace. 

It took a few seconds for Peter to stand, and immediately, Tony stood by his side with an arm looped around his. While Peter was glad to be free of any nausea, every step he took was harder than the last. 

“Kid,” Tony said quietly once they made it back inside the cabin. “Did you know that you’re breaking out in a rash?” 

Peter stared at Tony and then down at his arms. Below his t-shirt sat a blanket of angry red splotches and dots where the fire beneath his skin had been. He shook his head, and tears brimmed in his eyes once again. 

“It’s all over your face, too,” Tony remarked, yet his voice seemed entirely too calm for Peter’s liking. “Are—are you allergic to anything, Pete? Is there something I should know?”

Peter shook his head. “I-I don’t—” He exhaled shakily, but inhaling was the hardest part. Something had a tight grip on his lungs and wouldn’t let go. Was he hyperventilating? Was he having a panic attack? He couldn’t tell. He wanted nothing more than to brush his teeth and head to bed. 

“Shit, kid,” Tony said as his own panic sunk in. “What’s going on? Can you talk to me?”

Peter tried to breathe deeply once again. His lungs ached more after every expansion. He remembered this feeling—it was like he had suddenly become his fourteen-year-old self once again on the first day of high school. May had to drop off his inhaler within thirty minutes of the first bell. But now, Peter didn’t struggle with asthma anymore. He didn’t have an inhaler to fix this problem. 

“C-can’t—” He gripped onto Tony’s forearm. “Breathing, it’s—it’s hard.” 

Tony took a few seconds to register the words before he nodded. “Okay, okay. I’m terrible at anything medical, Pete, so I’m gonna take you to a hospital. It’s like twenty minutes away, okay? Can you make it?”

Peter had no choice but to nod. “I think so.”

He didn’t feel sick anymore despite the headache raging on. All he wanted was to shove his face into an oxygen tank and sleep for a hundred years. 

They made it up the stairs with ease, Peter’s knees buckling only once or twice on the way. From there, Tony rushed around the room, leaving Peter to prop himself up against the kitchen counter to keep the room from spinning. The lightheadedness had returned. 

“Mis’er—” Peter sighed, resting his head in his hand. He could feel his energy drain rapidly, consciousness slipping with it. His torso slumped onto the tile countertop. “—Mis’er Stark, I—” 

* * *

Peter first remembered hearing the slow beeps of a heart monitor beside him. A cool object was sealed around his nose and lips, and each breath felt like heaven as he inhaled and exhaled. It no longer hurt to breathe. For a moment, he believed that he had died. He awoke in a panic.

Cheaply tiled ceilings faced him from above. He could see the faint outline of a ventilator mask against the bridge of his nose. The air was cold enough to cause his eyes to water. Beneath his hand was a remote with large protruding buttons, and his first instinct was to press one. The bed he was in slid back with a harsh jolt. 

“You good there, Mister Parker?” asked a voice to his right. Tony peeked his head into view. 

Slowly, Peter regained enough consciousness to raise a neatly wrapped arm up to his face to remove the mask. Tony leaned over to help him. 

“What do they put in that thing?” Peter said, pointing to the ventilator. “Tastes like milk.”

Tony blinked a few times. “I sure hope it doesn’t. How’re you feeling, kiddo? You’re not on too many pain meds, so if you start saying funny shit, I’m gonna be worried.” 

“I’m sleepy,” Peter answered. He didn’t feel much else. The headache he vaguely remembered sat as a faint memory, and the rest was history. He wasn’t even sure what day it was. 

Tony hummed and tapped on the plastic railing beside Peter. “Well, I’m not gonna say I told you so because that would give me far too much credit, and honestly, I don’t really know what kind of algae is toxic and whatnot. So, long story short, swimming is off-limits for you forever. Doc said it was something about microcystins but biology was never my strong suit. You should be able to get out of here by tomorrow, so May will never have to know.”

Peter hardly registered a word Tony said—a portion of his brain was still half-asleep, and the other struggled to remember where he had been for the past twenty-four hours. It all came back as soon as he thought about it. The lake, the cabin, the campfire, and the sudden onset feeling of death and regret. 

“Once your rash is all healed up, you’ll be right as rain,” Tony said a few seconds later. “You looked like a damn tomato for a good three hours.” 

“I don’t like tomatoes,” was Peter’s reply. 

With a gentle eye roll, Tony reached over to ruffle Peter’s hair. “Yeah, you’re fine. Get some rest, kiddo.”

Peter watched as his mentor settled back into his chair with a sigh. The scent of smoke and charred wood lingered in the air, and Peter had a sudden hankering for marshmallows. But the only thing he could think about was the unlikelihood of this moment. As a kid, he had never imagined the person sitting beside him in a hospital would one day be Tony Stark. And, he never imagined that he would one day puke his guts out in front of him too. Nevertheless, it meant a great deal to Peter to see a man he once idolized sitting right there with him. 

He hoped it meant that he was worth something to Tony. He hoped it meant that he cared. 

“I thought you poisoned me, y’know,” Peter mumbled, toying with the blanket on his lap. “That’d kinda be a bad way to go.” 

Tony let out a half-hearted chuckle. “Me? Poison you? Why the hell would I do that?” 

Peter shrugged, at least he thought he did. “Dunno. It was dumb of me to think it.”

“Well, firstly, if I ever poisoned you, it would be on accident because of my cooking,” Tony said, “but there’s no way in hell that would ever happen because I would _never_ let that happen. Capiche?”

“Yeah. Capiche.”

“Thanks for not dying on me tonight, kiddo,” he said with a smile. “Really would’ve put a damper on things. Plus, it would’ve absolutely torn me apart.”

Peter’s eyes were closing with each second. He let himself succumb to the heavy exhaustion as he mumbled out a meek, “you’re welcome, Mis’er Stark.” 

“You ever gonna get around to calling me Tony? You know that’s my real name, right?”

“Bad name,” Peter said. “Don’t like it.”

“Oh, you’ll pay for that one, Parker.” 


End file.
